By the Numbers
by seven dragons
Summary: A collection of stories, one for each espisode of the show. Each story will explore a character or plot from that episode and try to illuminate some of the dimmer corners of the Blake world.
1. Introduction

**This author's note turned out to be long so I figured it would be better off as an introduction chapter. Skip to Chapter 2 if you want to go straight to the actual story.**

I have decided to try something new. This collection of stories is inspired by crinklybrownleaves' Alphabet Soup. I am going to write one story or drabble for each episode of Dr. Blake Mysteries. The chapters will be in episode order but will not be related to each other, it is just a collection of individual stories. I expect the writing to stretch on for months or longer, so make sure to click 'follow'!

Unlike most of what I write, the vast majority of these stories are not going to be about Lucien and Jean's relationship. These stories will delve into the other characters and plots and try to illuminate the dimmer corners of the Blake world. Some will be strictly canon, others will stray into the past or tell new stories within the original story. However each chapter will be connected to that episode. For characters that stretch over many seasons, I may take their "life" story into account, even if it hasn't happened yet.

Lastly, I am rating this 'T' because I haven't figured out all the stories yet and I don't know the future content, but I expect most of it will be pretty tame. Sorry, no begonias to garden here. :)

I hope you enjoy it. Please review or send me feedback.


	2. 1-1 Men of Honor

"Would Sir like another drink?"

"Sir?"

Patrick Tynneman waved dismissively in the direction of the bar, ignoring Cec entirely when his drink arrived. It has been an awful day. He had spent the bulk of it, as he had spent many days recently, arguing with Lucien Blake. An arrogant ass of a man and a drunkard to boot, no one had missed him or even spoke much of him for thirty years. Then all at once he sweeps back into town, making demands of everyone and instantly becoming the center of attention. Patrick would have thought that after thirty years Blake would be less of a nuisance. Nothing had changed.

Patrick took a sip of whisky. He had never liked Blake. When Patrick was learning his trade at his father's elbow, Blake was nancing about after his mother. He was everyone's little golden boy. Patrick was picked on as a boy and had to work hard to earn every scrap of respect he had as an adult. Blake was adored everywhere he went no matter how he treated others, especially Patrick. One night Patrick was forced to look after little precious Blake while their parents went to a club gala. Patrick had gone out back for a smoke and Blake caught him. The little rat proudly told Patrick's father who beat him for it, but not before thanking Blake for being such a good boy.

His wife Susan argued that he needed to be patient with Blake. Blake suffered so much during the war, she'd said. It's what everyone said. Poor Blake, who suffered during the war. He wasn't the only one in that bloody army. It's not Patrick's fault that he wasn't sent overseas. A clerk's position was a good use of his business skills and he'd been assigned to requisitions out of a barracks in Adelaide. Someone had to keep the supplies flowing to the front so men like Blake could come back bloody heroes and ruin other people's lives with impunity.

Patrick cursed under his breath.

After the war, Ballarat was flooded with lost souls and broken families and few jobs and where was Blake? Patrick kept factories open and the newspaper running and supported town institutions. Meanwhile Blake was nowhere to be seen, off living some exotic continental life. Even Blake's own father refused to speak of the man. Now, people were snickering and calling him "Patrick Bloody Tynneman" behind his back. No one had dared in his entire adult life to talk to him like that. Now Lucien Blake feels the need to pick on someone to feel bigger and suddenly everyone follows along. But men like Blake were not going stick around to support this town. Blake would breeze through as quickly as he came, or just descend into drink and oblivion and he wouldn't give a damn about who he took down with him. In the end, Patrick would be the one left behind, keeping Ballarat afloat. He had done his best to bolster his home in times of war and poverty, he would protect Ballarat from Lucien Blake as well. Long after Blake had moved on, a Tynneman would still be here.


	3. 1-2 Rear Guard

Sgt. Robert Hannam stood on a dock in Adelaide, patiently waiting his turn in line to board the ship. He pulled out a cigarette and as he raised the match to light it, his own jumper sleeve caught his eye and surprised him. Hannam spent so much time in uniform it was rare that he went on assignment in civilian clothes. These orders were particularly odd. He was taking a ship to Hong Kong with instructions to search for a woman. He was ordered to find her. Find her but not contact her. The assignment didn't make much sense to him. This was something that could easily be done through the War Office or a refugee charity, but Sgt. Robert Hannam always followed orders.

This was the last in an increasingly erratic set of commands the Major had given him the last few years, and in a lot of ways the one he was least comfortable with. His orders were usually simple. A task. A delivery. A disappearance. Anything more complicated and he was closely supervised and checked back often. The prospect of an adventure alone overseas made it worth while, but while an army ran on the strength of its sergeants and Hannam was proud to not be the exception, this was a level of autonomy even field grade officers rarely had. Hannam had to wonder if this was the beginning of the end. The brass were starting to ask questions. Some of the Major's expense reports had been questioned as were his whereabouts for long periods of time. The Major had held them off, citing state secrets and managing to shame his superiors into believing the safety of the country was somehow at risk if they kept him in check. Hannam laughed at that. The Major was a great man and those small minded cretins never appreciated what he did for them, what he did for this country. He should never have had to explain himself at all.

Hannam dropped his cigarette butt on the gangway as he presented his ticket to a member of the crew, ignoring the dirty look he got in return. He boarded the ship and went to search out his cabin. The Major had sprung for a second class cabin with a private bath, Hannam was honored that he thought so well of him. It was practical, of course. The less he had to speak with others the better. Less questions to answer. These days, it seemed like everyone had questions. Once inside he tossed his duffel bag on the adjoining berth, having refused to give it to a porter, and lay down. He lit up another cigarette and stared at the ceiling. He wondered if any of this had to with that blow-up in Ballarat. Hannam had gotten sloppy. He never should have killed the bastard somewhere where he couldn't retrieve the body. Then he panicked and got pushy with a local doctor. The Major was so angry he threatened to let him face charges. Hannam knew he never would, but had he done so he would have gone to trial and hung and never said a word. He owed the Major that much, at least.

He remembered the night they met. Hannam had been living on the streets in Sydney since he was ten. He spent most nights hungry and cold, and wide awake protecting himself from other kids. It was a great improvement from what he knew before. His mother was on the grog and would beat him. His father was worse. He gambled or drank away whatever money his mother didn't, and would turn to Hannam when he couldn't afford a girl. He left as soon as he was old enough to run faster than they could. He ran half way across the city and stayed there. He wasn't scared, he knew they wouldn't come looking for him. One night, as a teenager, he thought he found an easy mark. A soldier smoking in an alley behind a theatre. He didn't know what he was doing on that side of town and didn't much care. Soldiers were usually out for a good time. Men out for a good time carried cash. Hannam walked right up to him, knife drawn, and demanded his wallet. It should have been an easy one. Hannam didn't remember how the knife got knocked from his hand. In a flash his face was being pressed against the wet pavement, a knee sharp against his back. The man hauled him into a nearby hotel via the back stairs. He was too stunned to resist. Once inside, he ordered Hannam to wash up. He thought the man planned to use him like his father had, but instead he ordered dinner. It was the first hot meal Hannam had eaten in weeks. The man questioned him, about his life, his family. Hannam was sullen but answered, he had no reason not to. Finally he said he needed to take care of some business but Hannam was welcome to spend the night. If he was still there in the morning, the man might be able to find work for him, providing he could stay out of trouble. The soldier, a Lieutenant he later learned, was good to his word. He found him a job on the base where he was stationed. With each new promotion or transfer, Hannam followed. When he came of age he joined the army and eventually became Sergeant with help from the soldier, now a Major. Hannam never knew why the Major helped him that night and never asked. It didn't really matter. The Major had given him a new life. Hannam would follow him to the ends of the earth if asked, or even if he wasn't. Hannam would follow.

Still, sometimes he wondered. The runaway soldiers, this woman, the fight with Canberra, the agents in Indochina, none of it was adding up. He was becoming unreliable and the brass knew it. Unreliable men couldn't be trusted to follow orders. Hannam stripped off his thick black leather gloves and examined his hands. The blisters were getting worse, even though he hadn't been out to the testing range in weeks. That tof of a doctor in Ballarat said it was from the radiation. The ship's horn sounded, marking their departure. Hannam dropped his butt in an ash tray and looked out the port window. Bugger the doctor. He was just saying that to make the Major look bad. Lots of people worked out on the testing range and didn't have any problems. The Major would never harm him. They belonged together. The Major's last orders were to lay low, get some rest, enjoy the voyage to Hong Kong, and then find that woman. Easy enough done. Sgt. Robert Hannam always followed orders.


	4. 1-3 The Abomination

**Author's note: This story plunges into the depths of 1950's homophobia and self-loathing, and may be uncomfortable for some readers.**

* * *

The floor was cold, so cold his arms were going numb. Frank Connolly preferred it that way. A doctor came and spoke to him. He shook him, but Frank barely noticed. He sounded so far away. Everyone was far away. The Superintendent had said he would be charged with murder. It was the best news he had heard in weeks. He wanted to die. Hanging was too good for a person like him.

Thoughts of Ray Beck pierced his mind like sunlight in the dark and were equally as painful. He closed his eyes tight against them. He had always been this way, as long as he could remember. It wasn't fair, giving Frank the urges of a man and the needs of a woman. God was a bloody arse to make a man that way. He'd gotten arrested a few times when he was younger, out on the street back home. He was always able to get out of it, convincing the cops a strapping lad like himself could never be a poofter. Eventually he'd have to get out of town, and it would start all over again.

When he met Claire he was sure he could be cured of his perversion. She was a good woman and a looker to boot. If she couldn't fix him, no one could. They settled down, opened the boarding house, and worked hard every day. It made no difference. He always found his way back to the company of other men. He got better at not getting arrested, the boarding house providing the perfect cover. Now instead of ruining his own life, he destroyed Claire's. He took her apart piece by piece with each man he loved, each affair. He cared for Claire, but he couldn't control himself. He needed it too much. Frank often wondered about the children they never had. He could perform as a husband and did so for many years, but it was of no use. God would never allow an abomination like him to be fruitful. Eventually he stopped trying.

Frank rolled over, lying face down on the cement. Ray's face would not leave his mind. It hadn't for years. He bit down on his arm, willing himself not to cry. Real men didn't cry and he was determined to be a real man, even when the whole world knew he wasn't. Maybe if he went down for murder that might mean something. When he first met Ray Beck he thought Ray was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Looks like a movie star. It was an accident that he ended up in the only single room in the house that week. When Ray invited him to the pub one afternoon Frank was happy just to spend time with him. When Frank called him to his room the next night, claiming a maintenance issue, Frank was thrilled just to get some action with such a handsome man. Something broke in Ray's room every night after that, and it became quickly apparent that what they had went beyond base release. For the first time in his life, Frank felt like he wasn't a desperate slave to unnatural urges. Nothing involving Ray could be unnatural. Now it was all gone. Their love destroyed, his blood ground into ash.

Frank spread himself out prostrate and prayed with all his heart. He prayed to the god that made him an abomination not to deliver him from this ordeal but to kill him quickly. He'd rather die for a crime he did not commit than face a sodomy charge. There was nothing for him outside these walls. His wife hated him. The whole town now knew of his shame. What little he had, the boarding house, his snakes, even Claire, would disappear now. They were all worthless without Ray anyway.

In the distance, Frank heard a creaking noise and someone talking. He ignored it. A voice again. The third time, it was closer, enough to process if he'd cared enough.

"Hobart, get him up."

He became vaguely aware of a sharp pain in his ribs. He didn't feel it so much as mentally made a note it was there. Frank didn't care. The second blow brought him closer to the present. He found he was curled up in a ball on his side. He could hear screaming, but it was someone else's voice, followed by men arguing.

"I said get him up, not beat him to a pulp!"

"But boss, you're not going to let a fucking poofter like him just walk away."

"That's my decision Hobart! Lay another hand on him and I'll lock you in here with him."

Frank was hauled to his feet. Dazed, he was led to an interview room and locked in until he was well enough to sit upright again. An hour later the Chief Superintendent came in with a bag that contained the possessions they confiscated from him when he was arrested. Even now the Superintendent couldn't make eye contact.

"Here's your things. Get out of here. And don't leave town."

Here it came. Frank bit his tongue to try and control his reaction.

"You'll be hearing from us about the snakes."

Frank let out a sharp breath and risked a glance at the Superintendent, who looked away. The Superintendent gestured to Hobart to escort him out. Hobart motioned him to walk out in front of him toward the hallway. As he walked past, he could just barely make out the words under his breath.

"Next time I'm going to rip your donga off."

Frank froze in his tracks, only to be shoved down the hallway by Hobart. His wife was waiting in the lobby. She looked at him in utter disgust and turned her back. Frank felt relieved, she deserved better. Then she turned back around and ran into his arms, crying. He wished with all his heart that she had just walked away. He was a home-wrecker, faithless scum who had ruined her, and still she stood by him. He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve life. The sharp pain in his side reminded him that he was not safe in the police station, and if he wasn't, she might not be either. Death would not come for him today, however badly he wanted it to. But even if it had he knew he did not want it to come for him in front of Claire.

"Let's go."

Frank grabbed Claire roughly by the upper arm and guided her outside, into the cold sunlight.


	5. 1-4 Family Man

Constable Danny Parks stood holding a baby inside the Cooper residence. He fussed over the little boy to try and hide his discomfort. The widow eyed him warily. Bill talked about how hard her life was now, and how her husband's fellow policemen were all she had. The cute but fatherless child sat helpless in his arms. He knew Bill Hobart had brought him here to make a point. After a few minor house repairs and some meaningful looks from Bill, Danny was grateful to be back outside. Bill sighed heavily and looked back at the house.

"Come on Parks, there's a pub down the road. I'll buy you a beer."

Danny gaped at him, "Now? It's after hours! We can't be seen at a pub!"

Bill shook his head in disgust. "Don't be a sook," and he turned down the street. After a few paces he turned back, "Well Parks are you coming or not?"

Danny trotted after him. The door to the Pig & Whistle was locked but when Bill knocked a man opened the door and quietly let them in. There wasn't much to the place. Chipped floor tiles, furniture that looked like it had been rescued from a church basement, no decoration of any sort on the walls. A few men, probably trusted regular customers, sat at tables or at the bar. Bill and Danny sat down at the bar and at Bill's bidding the same man who let them in poured two half pints of lager. They sat for a long while, sipping their beer in silence. Danny was usually more talkative but nothing about Bill or the Cooper situation or this place made Danny want to have a chat. Eventually Bill looked up from his drink, gazing at some unknown point behind the bar, and spoke.

"My father worked on the docks in Brisbane."

Danny grew wide eyed. "You had a father?"

"Of course I had a father you idiot. And a mum too. A good one. They're both dead now, of course."

Danny nodded sympathetically. "My mum and dad are gone too."

"Well we're not talking about you are we? Now where was I? My dad, he took jobs as a gang enforcer on the side. He always told me to become a copper if I could get the work. You get to beat people up for a living, the salary is better than on the docks, and no one can stop you if they don't like what you're doing."

"You became a cop to beat people up?"

"You didn't?" Bill sneered at Danny. "I'll bet you became a cop so you could wear a pretty uniform. Now stop interrupting. Anyway, my father, he also told me family is important. You've got to protect your own. The police force is your family, Danny. In the end, your fellow coppers are all you got. You can't let a wanker like Blake get into your head. He'll turn you against every one of your brothers."

Danny looked down at his drink, a pained expression on his face. "But Jean, she's my aunt and she lives in Dr. Blake's house."

"She's just the bloody housekeeper. He isn't dirt to you."

Bill turned to Danny, a grin crossing his face. "Or are the rumors true then? If Blake's shagging your auntie Jean doesn't that make him your step daddy or something?"

"Oi!"

Danny was off his bar stool reaching for Bill's shirt. Bill didn't blink. "Calm down you tosser, I didn't mean anything by it. Sit back down."

The barkeep looked over at the scuffle. "Hobart if you are going to bring in rabble after hours you won't be allowed in anymore."

"Sorry mate."

Bill gave Danny a derisive look. "This town needs better rabble."

Danny just sulked. "See? If you ever got into a bar fight, you'd be happy for family like me to protect you."

"You're the one I want to fight you ass."

"Watch it, Constable."

Danny gave Bill a dirty look.

"I mean it, Parks. The coppers are your family. And family always comes first. You catch my meaning?"

Danny looked down at his drink and nodded reluctantly.

"You have a think about it."

Bill stood up and put on his hat, turning towards the door. "I've got to get back to the station and do some paperwork. Coming, Parks?"

Danny sighed and put on his hat. "I suppose."

Danny did not speak on the drive back to the station. He should have known that Bill Hobart would be as unpleasant to drink with as he was to work with. The trouble was, he was probably right. He tried to imagine the image of baby Hobart playing at home with a happy mother and father and found it terrifying. He put the image out of his mind. Some relatives, Danny thought to himself, were best kept at arm's length.


	6. 1-5 Confessions of a Flower Show Judge

Charlie Griffith paced the floor of his study. He took a gulp of whiskey, only to grasp at his stomach where a painful ulcer protested each sip. Everything he had dedicated his life to had burned to ashes. The professor was dead, his priceless plant collection decimated. The Begonia Festival was in disgrace. Griffiths himself would likely face criminal charges, and his reputation was ruined either way. And to top it off his son was intent on marrying that Manos tart. How had everything gone so wrong?

He had not started growing begonias for the glory, or even for the money. Once upon a time he was in love with everything that was green. He loved begonias for their beauty, that understated exotic quality as rich and diverse as Victoria itself. He never foresaw a future tying land deals to flower shows, and certainly not one where people could be killed over it. But he should have known where things were headed. It was like people always said, "Roses represent heritage, orchids are exotic, but begonias are where the real money is." Gradually, over decades, he gave in to the financial opportunities begonia judging afforded him. He should not have been surprised that other like minded people were attracted to them for the same reason. The corrupt and gold diggers like Anthony Farmer were bound to follow the floral money trail.

Another gulp, another cramp. The phone rings. He all but shouts into it.

"Hello?"

"Oh, Peter." It was the president of the Melbourne Day Lily Society.

"Yes, dreadful business."

"No I don't see us permanently cancelling the festival. These events are unfortunate but it does not undermine the beauty of these magnificent plants."

"No, Peter. You very well know there is no such thing as begonia jail."

"Well, I hope you didn't waste a long distance call just to say that!"

Griffith hung up the phone and sighed heavily. It had been like this all week. Letters and phone calls from garden clubs across the country gloating at his downfall. There had been several calls like the one he just weathered, all snide comments and disparaging remarks about the flowers he loved. The African Violet Club of Adelaide disinvited him to their annual ball. The Frangipani Admirers of Victoria sent a letter demanding an explanation. And worst of all, a telegram all the way from the president of the Queensland Tea Rose Society that simply read, "You begonia types always were an unstable lot."

Griffith rubbed his hands over his face. How could one flower turn so many people bad? Griffith resumed his pacing. Maybe it wasn't too late to start over again. He needed to get back to the basics, to find his love for gardening again. He was a wealthy man if one took property into account. He could sell up, take the money, and move some place far away. Maybe he could go to England or even Scotland. Someplace with a short growing season where there would be less temptation to trouble. He could become a lichen judge. Lichens were humble, close to the earth, and no one liked them enough to spend any money on their account. It might be a lonely and moss-filled life, but at least it would be an honest one. He would have to travel light, taking just his clothes, the few possessions he valued, and some of his favorite seed packets. But in the north he would make a new home. A new world, too cold for begonias to grow.

Griffith downed the last of his glass and then took a few swigs of whiskey out of the bottle. He looked around nervously, fearful that someone might have somehow heard his thoughts. It seemed unlikely, but after the events of last week anyone could be after him. He laughed and heard his voice echo into the empty house. His eye fell into a begonia on the window sill, the source of so much of his trouble. He considered smashing it but found he didn't have the heart. Instead he picked up the bottle of whiskey and after downing several more gulps, poured the remainder into the plant.

"Here old friend, have a farewell drink on me!"

Rushing out of the house he headed into town to make his plans, breaking into laughter as he went.


	7. 1-6 The Importance of Being Jean

Jean Beazely could name all the cities in Australia she had never visited by heart. And all the countries, and their capitols. Which is to say she could name every major city on a map of the world. She had never visited them, and she missed them all. When Jean was a girl she loved to read. History, romance, mysteries, but above all she loved to read about travel. She loved adventures that took her to the far off corners of the globe. Jean traveled with Allen Quartermain in search of lost worlds in King Solomon's Mines. She reveled in the sweeping feats of Jules Verne stories and never tired of how Philias Fogg had travelled around the world only to realize in his darkest hour that love was his greatest treasure. Jean dreamed of traveling the globe with these adventurers, of discovering treasures of her own. However her mother grew concerned about her bookish ways, admonishing her that boys didn't like girls who read too much or who acted too smart and she took it to heart. By her teenage years Jean had given up books entirely.

It wasn't until she was married with children that she resumed reading again. Trapped on the farm, having gradually watched all her dreams worked into the dust with the seeds, she was desperate for some distraction. On a trip into town she purchased a drug store paperback on a whim. It was awful stuff, a violent novella about the American West, but for a few hours after the boys were in bed it brought her an escape. She started making regular visits to the Ballarat East Library soon after.

Jean had never taken a particular interest in drama. She enjoyed the few plays she had seen but had never thought to be a part of them. It was as a favor to a friend at church that she picked up a script for the first time. One of the cast of the Church Dramatic Society had fallen ill a few weeks before the show opened and they needed a substitute. It was a minor role with only a few lines, an English ambassador in a highly abridged version of Hamlet, but Jean would fit the costume without alteration. Her friend practically begged her to help, so Jean said she would humor her. Suddenly, standing on stage in the background, Jean found she was not just reading the story, she was living it. She found the whole experience intoxicating. She did not care about the audience or the attention, in fact she would have preferred to forgo it if such a thing were allowed in plays, but being in someone else's skin and seeing the world through their eyes was a revelation. Jean knew she wanted to return to this world. However the dream was to be short lived. In the few weeks of rehearsals Christopher had already started to complain that she was away from the farm too long, and the boys naturally had no interest in Shakespeare. After the final curtain call Jean took her bow to an audience of strangers and distance acquaintances, and reluctantly walked away.

Walking away, Jean found, is not the same as forgetting. In all likelihood she would not have been able to continue after Christopher died even if family life had not forced her off the stage. After Christopher was gone keeping her family fed, a roof over their heads, and her children out of trouble became a constant struggle. Boredom was a distant luxury she would have considered herself blessed to endure. She still found time to read with the occasional play making its way onto her reading list. On those rare quiet evenings she would scan the dialogue, picking out which characters to play, silently reciting a few lines to herself. When the boys were grown and had left home and she was settled into a stable routine as the doctor's housekeeper, she was quick to return to the Drama Society. While no one would confuse them for the Union Theatre Repertory Company, she got to escape to other people's lives again, and she took great joy in it.

Considering all of this, Jean found it bitterly ironic that she was walking away again. Previously it was outside circumstances that had kept her away from the theatre, this time it was pressure from within. During rehearsals for "The Importance of Being Ernest," political feuds were spilling over from the real world into the play, straining her relationship with church members she had known for years. Getting even a minor role was a fight. To complicate things, she had attracted the attentions of the kind but milquetoast director of the play. She had seen it coming for a long time, but she was running out of ways to say no without jeopardizing her place in the company. She agonized over him, debating a last chance at married life vs. being confined to a marriage with a man for whom she felt no passion for. So Jean informed him on one difficult afternoon that she would be done with both of them, the director and the Drama Society as a whole. She tried to do it gently but he saw through her excuses. Jean knew he would never understand how much it cost her to reject him. She tried to turn her attention during the rest of the rehearsal period on the role. She focused on the story, the dialogue, the humor, the costumes; she tried to take joy in what little time she had left there.

On what should have been one of her final days with the Drama Society, taking a curtain call while dressed unconvincingly as a young male manservant, she looked out across the stage and found herself wavering. In the front row sat her employer, Lucien Blake, along with their lodger Mattie and her nephew Danny. They were applauding and cheering louder than anyone in the room, despite Jean's minor part. Squinting she could just make them out, but they were impossible not to hear. Suddenly Jean found she had an audience she was never seeking, and it was difficult not to feel like she was where she belonged. She realized that as much as she loved to step inside other characters, playing Jean Beazely had its charms as well. Jean Beazely was not the sort of person who would give up what she loved just because of a few difficulties. The role she played with the Drama Society was far from over.


	8. 1-7 Elegy for the Mad

"You come back to this town with nothing. Everything you have is your father's. His practice. His house. His housekeeper. Weak, drunk, and self-righteous. You have nothing."

Weak, drunk, and self-righteous. Rosemary Morrisey's words came back to him as he sat across from Oriel, who had shown up most unwanted in his office. Her visit didn't seem to have any purpose other than she wanted someone to talk to but her presence gave Blake a sense of unease. He saw in Oriel a shadow of what could have been, what might still come. Blake envied Oriel and the residents of the asylum, they were free to wear their madness on their sleeves, to give vent to their inner demons. Meanwhile Lucien Blake walked among the civilized world tortured by the raging in his head. Ready to scream, ready to snap, he fought every day to keep a semblance of normalcy and resist the temptation to free the demons and escape forever to the same place that Oriel had gone; free to lose control, no longer held responsible for her own actions, safe in her madness. But instead Blake drank. Drank, and had nightmares, and threw himself into any task that would distract him from his own mind.

Still he knew there were people who were not fooled. Rosemary Morrisey called him weak. Oriel's friend at the asylum called him weak. His father made no secret of what he thought of yet another of Blake's failings. He was sure his housekeeper saw it too. Blake pushed these thoughts from his mind and peppered Oriel with questions, hoping the visit might yield some information about the murder of Doug Ashby's daughter. The questions upset her.

"Lucien is supposed to mean bringer of light. I think they're wrong."

Blake stared at Oriel in surprise, shock mixed with a growing appreciation of her perception. Oriel saw right through him. In her admiration and scorn she seemed to be the only person who saw Blake for who he was and who he wasn't. He looked again at the paintings Oriel brought with her. They were more realistic then she knew. He was on canvas as he was out in the world - jovial and composed by day, tortured and alone in the dark of night. If people thought he was inferior to dad now imagine what they'd think if they knew him for who he really was.

The next few days were a blur of booze and shadow. There was shouting, a spurt of blood, whiskey, music, more whiskey, and at some point darkness. He told himself he was trying to solve a murder but he knew that the compulsion that kept bringing him back to the asylum had nothing to do with Violet's death. It had to do with everyone else's: the murders he had committed, the ones done to his family, and the murder he was too weak to bring on himself. He wanted to be with his own kind. They hated him but at least they understood. When Blake glanced up at Oriel's painting it looked as if the one on the right, bright and assured, was fading while the one on the left grew darker with each day. Somewhere in a drunken haze a thought broke through, "Dorian Gray couldn't have done it better if he tried." Blake laughed. Someone yelled at him. Darkness came again.

Eventually the murderer was found, because of Blake or in spite of him, he wasn't really sure anymore. Blake was obliged to return to the world, a mad sheep amongst the sane wolves. On his final trip to the asylum, tying up some loose ends for the paperwork, he passed Oriel's easel. A blank canvas stood waiting. Around him people mumbled, shuffled, shouted, barely giving him a glance. Life here went on as normal. Oriel was off on some appointment or maybe confined to a cell, he did not ask. Instead he picked up a piece of charcoal and scrawled a message for her across the canvas in large capital letters.

"You were right."


	9. 1-8 A Brief History of Television

August 7, 1906 Matthew James Lawson is born in Ballarat, Victoria. He is the younger of two children.

September 1, 1909 Lucien Radcliffe Blake is born in the same town.

April 30, 1917 Matthew Lawson receives the first of many beatings at Ballarat West State School. The teachers never seem to notice.

June 23, 1918 Lucien Blake discovers Matthew Lawson sick outside the back door of Ballarat West State School. Matthew tells Lucien he was smoking. Lucien believes him.

June 27, 1919 Lucien Blake leaves Ballarat West. Matthew Lawson does not notice for several weeks. They do not meet again for forty years.

December 8, 1920 Matthew Lawson's father James dies of a heart attack.

March 16, 1924 Matthew Lawson joins the Ballarat police force under Chief Superintendent Douglas Ashby. Ashby often reminds him of the bullies who used to beat him up at Ballarat West. However he learns quickly and excels through the ranks, much to the consternation of his fellow year-mates.

October 2, 1925 John Logie Baird successfully transmits a grayscale image via mechanical television.

September 7, 1927 Philo Farnsworth demonstrates electronic image transmission, the foundation for modern television.

September 30, 1929 The first television broadcast in Australia is broadcast from the Menzies Hotel in Melbourne. Matthew Lawson reads about it in the Ballarat Courier six days later. It is reported on page seven.

November 12, 1930 Matthew Lawson meets Audrey Davidson while on patrol in Ballarat. He proposes six months later. Audrey's agrees to a long engagement so Matthew can concentrate on his career.

May 3, 1933 Rose Anderson is born in Melbourne to Matthew Lawson's older sister Mary. Matthew and Audrey travel to meet his niece that July.

February 25, 1934 After ten years of service to the Ballarat police force, Senior Sergeant Matthew Lawson is sent the "Bonehead," the Victoria detective's academy. He plans to live in Melbourne for eighteen months.

May 6, 1934 Regular test television broadcasts begin in Brisbane to an estimated 18 receivers around the city. There is an hour a day of programming, including news and silent film.

March 22, 1935 Regular television broadcasts begin in Germany.

April 17, 1935 While still at academy in Melbourne, Matthew Lawson receives a letter from Audrey Davidson informing him of her engagement to an old school friend in Ballarat, ending her relationship with Matthew. Matthew is stunned as he had visited her several weeks previous and she did not say anything. Matthew vows to throw himself into his career with even more determination.

May 30, 1935 Matthew Lawson's mother Martha dies of pneumonia in Ballarat. Lawson is granted two weeks leave to attend the funeral and see to his mother's affairs. Audrey Davidson attends the funeral but they do not speak.

October 31, 1935 With little to return to in Ballarat, Inspector Matthew Lawson takes a position with the Chinatown police station in Melbourne. He likes that the high crime rate there will keep him busy.

November 2, 1936 Regular television broadcasts begin in England via the BBC.

September 3, 1939 Australia declares war on Germany, entering World War II.

November 9, 1939 Inspector Matthew Lawson volunteers for the army. He is originally assigned to a military police unit managing a prison but requests transfer to a combat unit. It is granted twelve months later when Lawson is sent to a newly formed infantry unit.

June 16, 1941 Sergeant Matthew Lawson distinguishes himself at the Siege of Torbruk as part of the 9th Division before being evacuated in the fall of the same year. Two thousand of his fellow soldiers were wounded at the siege and over six hundred captured. Five hundred were killed. He later receives the Military Medal for acts of gallantry and devotion to duty under fire.

July 1, 1941 American company RCA begins commercial broadcasting in the United States.

February 28, 1943 Master Sergeant Matthew Lawson lands in Fremantle, Australia. His unit is disbanded one month later and he is discharged.

June 3, 1943 - November 28, 1944 No one can account for Matthew Lawson during this time. He will later tell people he is traveling which his sister confirms, but will not say where.

January 10, 1945 Inspector Matthew Lawson resumes his civilian police career at the Chinatown station in Melbourne.

September 1, 1953 Inspector Matthew Lawson transfers to the St. Kilda station as the senior officer. He is promoted to Superintendent six months later.

October 13, 1955 The St. Kilda incident. A number of police officers under the supervision of Superintendent Matthew Lawson are arrested for having sex with prostitutes in lockup in exchange for being released without charges. The arrests were the culmination of an eight month investigation out of the Melbourne headquarters. It is rumored that Matthew Lawson was one of those officers but he is never charged. Lawson's superiors strongly recommend that he apply for a transfer.

February 29, 1956 Superintendent Matthew Lawson takes command of the Ballarat police station, being the only position offered for him to transfer to. Noting that he had started on a Leap Day, his colleagues joke that he will have to work for hundreds of years in order to make it to retirement. Lawson responds that he's heard of worse possibilities.

October 27, 1956 After years of government disputes, both government and commercial television stations in Australia begin broadcasting in time for the Melbourne Summer Olympics.

January 18, 1958 The city council of Ballarat is outraged to find out that a television station has started broadcasting in Bendigo, several months ahead of schedule.

May 5, 1958 BTV-8 Ballarat starts broadcasting. Among the initial program offerings are news, the TV play "The Grey Nurse Said Nothing," a home-grown variety show called Sunnyside Up, and a quiz show called Game of Champions.

July 9, 1958 Matthew Lawson attends a live taping of Game of Champions. He likes it so much he starts attending once or twice every month. In deference to his status in the community the producers always make sure two front row tickets are available to him. He always goes alone.

February 16, 1959 Matthew Lawson meets Lucien Blake for the first time in 40 years. They don't remember each other. It is several months before they realize they went to the same school.

July 21, 1959 James Holbrook wins 1,000 pounds on Game of Champions and dies shortly after. He is initially thought to have died of a heart attack. Matthew Lawson is in the audience but is unaware of the death until after the show is over.

July 22, 1959 Dr. Lucien Blake, police surgeon, determines that James Holbrook was electrocuted.

July 25, 1959 One day after Lucien Blake breaks his television and blows the house fuse box trying to determine how James Holbrook was murdered, Constable Danny Parks relates the whole story to Superintendent Matthew Lawson during a tea break at the police station.

"First there's this spark and the Doc shouts out, then total darkness. Then the Doc hits his knee on the television and staggers out of the room. It was hysterical! And my Aunty Jean, well she's furious with him. She actually warned him before he started that Sunnyside Up was on last night and he went ahead with it anyway. She went on at him all night. She didn't even want to serve him dinner."

Matthew Lawson replies, "You see, this is why I like living alone. No nagging woman to get at me over every little thing."

July 28, 1959 Police surgeon Dr. Lucien Blake presents his theory that James Holbrook and show hostess Verity Coleman were having an affair. Superintendent Matthew Lawson feels a brief pang of sympathy for Alan Coleman and wonders what it must be like to come home to a beautiful woman like that every night. He decides it's not worth it if he has to worry about her stepping out all the time. Later that night, Matthew Lawson attends another taping of Game of Champions alone. He later tells Lucien Blake that it was part of the ongoing investigation. During the show, contestant Simon Lo is electrocuted live on air.

July 29, 1959 Superintendent Matthew Lawson argues with businessman and Game of Champions sponsor Patrick Tynneman. It is two in the morning. Over a thirty year career Matthew Lawson has gradually learned to use his authority judiciously, and Lawson is glad to see it pay off. Lawson puts the amoral tof in his place and enjoys watching him slink out of the police station, fearful of being arrested for murder. Just after dawn on the same day, Dawn Prentice is arrested at Ballarat Studios after being confronted by police surgeon Dr. Lucien Blake about her role in the killings.

August 2, 1959 A letter of complaint is written to the Australian Broadcasting Control Board about the on-air death of Simon Lo, co-signed by members of various Ballarat civic organizations, two churches, and other prominent citizens. While the board agrees that this is a violation of decency, disagreements over the appropriate jurisdiction and legal standing to pursue the complaint ultimately cause the investigation to be suspended indefinitely.

August 4, 1959 Superintendent Matthew Lawson sits at his desk eating his usual pasty for lunch while Constable Danny Parks talks about how he was up half the night playing cards with police surgeon Dr. Lucien Blake, his aunt Jean Beazely, and their lodger Mattie O'Brien.

"After everything that happened last week none of us could stand to watch that quiz show. I was going to go home but Aunty Jean suggested a game of Pontoon. We ended up playing way too long. You gotta watch the Doc though. I swear he cheats. Somehow he got six aces!"

Matthew Lawson tosses his half eaten pasty into the waste bin.

"Well, you've got yourself a right little family there, don't you Parks?"

The words come out harsher than Matthew Lawson intended.

* * *

Author's note: The dates for the history of television and the WWII military history are sourced mostly from Wikipedia. To the best of my knowledge they are accurate. The exception is the history and programming of the Ballarat and Bendigo stations, which are mostly made up. Dates in Lawson's life are a combination of canon, fanon, and my own speculation.


	10. 1-9 Golden Days

Jan Vennick sat at a small table in the dingy pub, looking over his shoulder and around the empty room.

"I thought this place was closed on Sundays."

Matthew Lawson loomed above him and placed a half pint of lager in front of him.

"It is."

"Am I going to get arrested?"

Lawson settled down next to him with his own pint.

"Not for this."

Jan continued to look around nervously before finally lifting the drink, draining half of it in one gulp.

"That mine, it's cursed. And not just for that Pike bastard. Everyone who has ever touched it had fallen on misfortune."

"You're still here."

Jan grimaced.

"Rubbish. I worked for more than ten years on that claim. What did I get for it? I live in a shack in the woods and live off rabbits while that bastard struck it rich."

Lawson looked at him sympathetically.

"That wasn't what it seemed."

Jan snorted derisively and drained the second half of his glass. Lawson motioned for the bar keep to bring him another.

"You know, I remember when my grandfather first came here. The mine wasn't all trees like it is now. It was part of the Ballarat East goldfield, open land as far as the eye could see in any direction. The pilings were ten feet high, sometimes higher. And everything that wasn't pilings or holes in the ground was shacks. Shacks for living, shacks for drinking, shacks for praying, shacks for whores."

"I didn't know your grandfather worked the claim."

"Yes. He bought it for a premium price in aught nine right from the mining company. They claimed it was too expensive for industrial extraction but they swore there was plenty of gold still there a man could dig up if he worked it by hand. They gave him reports, surveys, everything. Lying bastards."

Matthew said nothing, sipping his lager silently. Jan rubbed a rough hand across his jaw.

"My grandfather worked that claim for years. He went into debt. His wife left. He died alone at the bottom of the mine, right where you found that Springer fool. Heart attack they said."

"Jan," Lawson took a deep breath, "Most of the mines were closed by then, and the gold fields petered out decades before. He had to know it was a long shot."

Jan sneered, "It didn't stop your father. He was always out at the creeks, trying to find enough gold to pay off his gambling debts."

Lawson looked pale. Jan grinned.

"Ah you didn't know about that then, did you? He was always in here, not a penny to his name, bragging about the fortune he was going to find tomorrow. Always tomorrow. We used to call him Luckless Sam."

Lawson grimaced. His knuckles grew white as his hand tightened around his glass.

"If you want to walk out of here with both your legs I suggest you never mention my father again."

"Suit yourself. Anyway, my grandfather died, and the claim changed hands several times. Each time something bad happened. One bloke fell down the shaft and broke his neck. The next found some gold down an unused tunnel but he died trying to melt it down. Fumes or something. The next one, he also swore he found some gold, enough to settle down. He was the one who sold the claim to my brother."

"Well that fellow did alright then."

Jan glared at Lawson.

"Killed in a bar fight days after leaving town. Stabbed I heard. They never found the gold, I assume it was stolen."

Lawson smirked, "Right. Stolen."

Jan ignored him and continued.

"My brother and I worked the claim together for over ten years. All day and sometimes all night. We dug into the rock. Hauled gravel. Shored up walls. We did it with no one else to help. Then my brother died and I knew I couldn't do it alone."

"What terrible fate befell your brother?"

Jan looked down into his drink.

"Seizure. He'd always had them, since he was a boy."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. My brother died penniless. I didn't have a shilling to my name. It made sense to sell it to the next fool who came along. I thought I was lucky to get a few pounds for the claim, enough to live off of for a little while. And then what happens? Not weeks later, that Pike bastard is running all over town showing off his gold. That was my gold! I worked for years to find it. I dug the tunnels, moved the rock, all so he could strike it rich! He made a fool of me.

And then what happens? He dies. Springer gets trapped in a cave-in. That mine has broken every man who has gone into it. Except me. My grandfather gave his life to that mine. My brother gave his life to that mine. But I survived. I'm still here. Now thanks to Pike all these men are hovering around the mine day and night, like wild dogs waiting for a kill. My blood and sweat is on that gold. It belongs to me! I have the right to defend what's mine."

Lawson finished the last of his lager, rising from his chair as he set the glass down.

"I think you're right. The mine probably is cursed. You got a crook deal with it. But I still have to arrest you for taking a shot at my police surgeon."

The bar keep turned around from where he was cleaning glasses.

"I knew it. What do I always tell you, Lawson? I don't trust blow-ins."

Jan leaped up, slamming his hands down on the table.

"My family's been here for seventy years you bastard!"

"Alright that's enough. Do me a favor Jan, put your hands behind your back and go with me quietly."

Jan bristled and let Lawson cuff him.

"This isn't over. I'm taking back that claim. The gold is mine!"

Lawson sighed as he led Jan out of the bar, exchanging glances with the bar keep.

"If you say so."


	11. 1-10 The Beginning of Time

_In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters._

That's what the florid script said in Latin running along the border of the map of the hemispheres, two conjoined circles surrounded by angels and men gazing proudly at the world within. The senior doctor Blake had translated it for her once. He had purchased the tome, an elegant combination of geography and evangelization, in the hopes that it would prove instructive to his young son whom he feared was going astray. The doctor made no secret that the book had proven useless on that account. The ancient book was older than either of them and perhaps older than Australia itself, but the colors were still vibrant. Its continents, if misshapen and misinformed, still whispered in the languages of far off lands, past and present.

Jean used to browse the leaves often, looking at the well formed maps of Europe, northern Africa, and the ghostly outline of the Americas. She often wondered what life was like there, then and now. She had read the histories with disinterest in her school days but later in life eagerly absorbed the adventures of those few she knew who were able to travel.

Now more often than not Jean found herself gazing at the maps of Asia. The vast lands marked with the names of kingdoms and provinces, cities meticulously placed along rivers - the sort of information a 17th century European merchant would value. The coast lines were accurate in some places, fanciful in others. Many of the names: China, Siam, Borneo, Corea, survived unaltered from the depths of history. Others, Bengala, Indostan, Insulae Phillipine, took very little imagination to guess. Yet other countries, Ainam, regnum Gannam, Brema, Jean could guess only from their approximate location, the names themselves having either been changed or receded into the mists of time. And along the eastern coast of Asia Novae, within the Oceanis Chinemsis between Corea and a large inland lake stood the city of Xanghai.

Xanghai was depicted on the map an an island containing a walled fort bearing a red pennon. Jean thought it was rather apt that this was where Lucien was at this very moment. This anachronistic depiction of island and fort and flag, geographically inaccurate and yet to Jean it could not be more real. Lucien could be in any walled city, on any island, in the middle of any sea and it would have made no difference. He was too far away for the rational imagination to understand. He wasn't here.

Jean chastised herself for feeling this way. Wasn't this what she wanted? To live in peace to mind the senior Blake's affairs and move on? For months she wished herself rid of him. Lucien was no visionary adventurer. He had come home bitter, disrupting her life and his father's, and when that wasn't enough he would disrupt the entire town. Jean thought time and patience would help him and when that failed, a stern hand. But every time he seemed to be adjusting to life in Ballarat he would plunge back into self destruction, each time worse than the next. On the last night that she saw him Jean had already decided that she could bear no more. She could not help him and she could not stand to watch him dismantle both their lives as if neither of them mattered. Trust Lucien to ruin her dramatic exit. Still, Jean could not hate him. He breathed life into the house and everything he touched, including Jean. He brought the colors of kindness and compassion into a monochrome world. As the months alone wore on Jean was surprised to find herself more attached to the person than the place. The house seemed void of meaning without him. It is another empty island on a map.

Jean sighed and flipped to the last leaf, Nova Hollandia. Here is half of a world, the western coast of Australia neatly drawn. The interior is empty, and the eastern coast expands into nothingness. A lone sea monster inhabits this kingdom. There is no Victoria. There is no Ballarat. Jean wondered if this is how Lucien saw his former home now, a place of so little consequence it was not worth marking down. Jean's town and Jean's existence were not only beneath notice but beneath existence.

A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie. Jean answered to find a young boy in a smart uniform holding an envelope.

"Telegram for Mrs. Beazely."

Jean stood for a moment, stunned. Telegrams were so rare these days, and even when they weren't Jean had never received one. After a moment Jean came to her senses. Rummaging around the kitchen for some change she accepted the envelope and tipped the boy, who thanked her and left on a dark blue push bike. For a while Jean just stood there, turning the envelope over and over. She knew without opening it who it must be from. A wave of emotions warred within her. She wondered if this was the dismissal she had long expected. He would stay in his world, and she would stay in hers. Part of her felt relief that the wait was finally over. The other part felt deep disappointment that she would never see him again. Eventually Jean decided that staring at the envelope in fear was accomplishing nothing and she walked back into the kitchen to open it. The terse sentences typed in black block letters filled the small yellow paper.

JEAN

AM RETURNING IN THREE WEEKS TIME. WILL CALL FROM MELBOURNE. LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU.

YOURS,

LUCIEN

Jean tried and failed to suppress a smile. All her fears and doubts suddenly seemed superfluous. Lucien was coming home. Jean carefully placed the telegram in the center of the kitchen table. She would look at it every day for the next three weeks.


End file.
